


And All These Summer Days

by queeniegalore



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Dorian's Villa, Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss, Venatori, background Cullen/Rylen, slight roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22241695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeniegalore/pseuds/queeniegalore
Summary: Bull rescues Dorian from a Venatori kidnapping, but dealing with the fallout proves to be harder than either of them anticipated.The Bull took up most of any space he occupied, but the size of him in this tent was ridiculous. He was warm, so warm, he filled the air around him with that heat and with the scent of iron and blood. There was red still on his horns and in his fingernails and in the crevasses of his scars. He would have fastidiously scrubbed off his vitaar, so as not to hurt the humans he came into contact with, but been careless with the blood.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 16
Kudos: 190
Collections: The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	1. The Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Adoribull Reverse Bang Challenge, and based on an absolutely EXQUISITE piece of art by the amazing lonicera_caprifolium, which is included at the end of the story. 
> 
> Huge thanks as usual to my twitter cheerleader crew, and EXTRA special love to SerenadeStrong and Noctiphany, who systematically removed 98% of my commas and made this fic 98% better.

When Stitches decided to retire and settle down with an Inquisition scout on the outskirts of Val Royeaux, much to everyone’s surprise, Bull hired a spirit healer to replace him as the band’s medic, which was the only reason Dorian survived being kidnapped by the Venatori a year or so later.

Fioled was an elf from the former Starkhaven circle, and came much recommended by Captain Rylen. She’d been somewhat at a loose end since the circles had fallen, spending some time at Skyhold, some at Griffon Wing Keep, some travelling the Dales. She’d never known her family or her clan, her years in the circle leaving her uncomfortable in cities and not Dalish enough, in her own words, to fit in anywhere else.

She took to the Chargers, however, like a duck to water, and thus, Dorian lived.

~

“Send my compliments to the chef,” were Dorian’s first, nonsensical words upon waking in a small tent in the middle of nowhere. He looked around bleary-eyed, noted Bull, Krem and a small, unknown elf all hovering over him, tried to smile, and promptly passed back out.

When he next awoke it was to the sight of Bull slumped awkwardly against the tentpole, snoring, and Krem sitting half in and half out of the entrance, his maul across his knees and his eyes alert as he watched over them.

“Stitches...has learned to work miracles since I last saw him,” Dorian murmured, voice as dry as the Hissing Wastes. “I was... dying from that gut wound.”

Bull’s eye snapped open. “Kadan?”

“Stitches left the company over a year ago, Magister, you sent a gift to his wedding,” Krem said in his lovely, lazy voice. “And lucky for you he did.”

Dorian closed his eyes, sinking into the warmth of Bull’s hands on his face and neck for a moment, ignoring the confusion and discomfort and lingering certainty that he _was_ dying. He remembered the Venatori, the magebane, the pile of bodies at his feet that was smaller than the crowd of enemies surrounding him. He remembered being starved. He remembered the rescue, and the cultists realising that his value as a hostage was not worth them all dying under Bull’s blade. He remembered that they didn’t even use magic on him in the end, it had been a casual stab to the gut from the second-in-command’s staff blade. He’d felt it scrape his spine, or he imagined he had. “Bull came,” had been his last coherent thought, after “ _fuck_ ” and “ _die, you bastards_ ”.

He did not remember Stitches leaving the Chargers, nor sending him a wedding gift, nor...much else, he was fuzzily realising.

Lovely.

“I’m alive, Bull,” he murmured, distracted, shaking fingers grasping at Bull’s, shaking breaths drawing in the scent of him. “I’ve no idea how you managed it, but I’m alive.”

“Fioled is getting a raise,” Bull muttered back.

Krem snorted. “I’ll go and fetch her, shall I?”

The Bull took up most of any space he occupied, but the size of him in this tent was ridiculous. He was warm, so warm, he filled the air around him with that heat and with the scent of iron and blood. There was red still on his horns and in his fingernails and in the crevasses of his scars. He would have fastidiously scrubbed off his vitaar, so as not to hurt the humans he came into contact with, but been careless with the blood.

His dragon’s tooth was digging into Dorian’s chest.

“If you hadn’t come, I would have died taking them down,” Dorian whispered. “I killed so many, Bull.”

“I know, Kadan,” Bull soothed. “They threw the bodies in a gorge near their campsite. That’s how I knew we were close.”

“You killed the rest?”

“I killed the rest.” Bull’s voice was low and vicious, and it settled something deep in Dorian’s recently restored gut. “They did not die well.”

Dorian shivered with dark pleasure. The Venatori were not known for being friendly captors, and his status as a hostage to be ransomed had only kept him from the very worst of it.

He’d _seen_ the worst the Venatori could do, though, and was grateful he’d been spared it.

“I can’t fathom why they didn’t burn the bodies,” he remarked absently, as Bull continued his brisk, gentle examination. Hands on his face, neck, shoulders, hands pushing the blankets down to his waist, hands tugging at the loose linen shirt that was all he wore. Dorian let him. Bull’s hands on his skin was the security of a full set of armour and enchanted robes all in one. His heart was beating too fast and his breath was coming too short, and he still couldn’t stop the shaking, but Bull, for now, could be his strength.

“We’ll go over all that,” Bull promised. “You’ve been out for a couple days, you probably feel like shit. Fioled will be here to look over you in a bit, and we’ll take it from there.” He paused for a moment, looking at Dorian strangely, and then added, “Your staff is by your right hand. We sacked their camp for anything of value. When you’re up to it you can sort through it all for your things, but I recognised your staff.”

Dorian’s hand twitched. He hadn’t - he hadn’t even thought.

“When I’m up to it?”

“Not now.”

“Playing nurse, Amatus,” Dorian sighed, but he couldn’t honestly disagree that he felt like shit so he shut his mouth instead. Two days, and Bull still wore the blood of their enemies. Had brought Dorian nothing but a healer and a weapon.

He loved this creature. He did.

~

Fioled, a tiny, vaguely familiar dark-haired elf with light brown skin and huge amber eyes, came soon enough in a bustle of green leather, tugging a bag half the size of herself in through the tent flaps.

“Chief, make yourself small or pop out of the tent for a minute,” she ordered Bull in the no nonsense way of just about every healer Dorian had ever met. She was, generously, about the size of Bull’s left thigh, but he obeyed meekly, kneeling awkwardly against one of the tent walls and giving her a clear shot at Dorian.

Dorian pulled the blankets back up to his chest.

“I don’t... _believe_...we’ve met,” he said with as dashing a smile as present circumstances would allow. He was suddenly very conscious of the gaps in his memory - this was a Charger, a Charger Bull trusted enough to allow into a tent with them, and he did not know her. 

Everything was happening too fast. He wanted five minutes alone with his thoughts, to breathe and close his eyes and think. Yet apparently this tiny elf who had saved his life must be endured first.

At least The Bull was close, like a fortress, and Dorian settled himself with the knowledge that he could escape to within those walls soon enough.

“Oh, I’m new,” the elf was saying, in an incongruously thick Starkhaven brogue. “New-ish, at any rate. The Chargers have been very accommodating.”

“Krem sure has,” Bull put in quietly, and was answered immediately with a thump on the outside of the tent, directly next to his left ear. He grinned, and Dorian tried very hard not to show how the noise had startled him. It was Krem of course, guarding them and listening in. No more.

Fioled, unfortunately, was apparently as canny as she was no nonsense.

“Chief,” she said quietly. “Tell your idiot men to stop being idiots for the duration, would you? You may include yourself in the request.”

Bull, as much as his skin allowed, blushed.

“Noted. Krem?”

A muffled cough from outside the canvass. 

“Noted Chief, Fioled.”

“Excellent.” Having completely taken control of the situation, and two of the most fearsome men in Dorian’s acquaintance, Fioled turned back to her charge. 

“Dorian,” she started warmly, settling neatly by his chest. “You may have figured out already that I’m a spirit healer. Is that going to be okay with you? If not, I have other tools at my disposal.”

Dorian blinked. “I’d be quite a hypocrite if it wasn't, wouldn’t I?”

Fioled, pulling potions out of her bag, shrugged. “You might be surprised, but in the South some people just won’t have it, even some mages. Because of...well, you know, because of him. Anders.”

“Ah.”

The rebel mage had, of course, been a spirit healer. Some people tended to forget that part of the story. Varric himself had certainly played it down. 

Dorian’s head ached. He wanted to question the elf but the flask of elfroot sitting by his elbow suddenly looked so much more appealing than modern Theodosian history. Most of all, he wanted to sleep.

Fioled saw him looking and handed him the flask, gesturing Bull a little closer to help him sit up enough to drink.

“Only a mouthful, please,” she instructed. “Your stomach is empty and we don’t want it all coming back up. I’m going to examine you and then give you something to eat. Then it's back to sleep, I think.”

That sounded lovely.

“We’re safe where we are for another few days,” Bull added. “We’ll move when you’re up to it.”

“And where is that, exactly?” Dorian asked, wiping his mouth. Now that it had been mentioned, he realised he was starving.

“Outskirts of a little nothing town on the Navarran side of the border,” Bull said. “Now shut up and let Fioled work, okay?”

It was gentle, and Dorian succumbed, nodding as she raised her hands and...communed with her spirit, or whatever it was she was doing.

“Why don’t you have a nickname?” he mumbled, as the soft glow of the Fade settled over him. If he concentrated, which he was not inclined to do, he thought he might be able to hear the whisperings of the other side. 

_Spirit, not demon,_ he thought to himself. He supposed he could understand, after all, why Spirit Healers were still feared in the South.

Fioled slowly swept her hands down his body. Dorian could hear the smile in her voice.

“Oh, they tried,” she said lightly. “I discouraged it.”

_Ahh. She’s terrifying._

He offered a tired smirk, and let the elf work.

~

His memory of, as far as he could tell, a year and a half before being abducted had completely gone.

After working on him, Fioled had allowed him some beef broth and a few scraps of bread to soak it up, and then ordered him back to sleep. By that point Dorian was more exhausted than he had any right to be, and was happy to obey her. Bull stayed by his side, though as he drifted off he thought he heard the healer sternly telling him to go and take a bath, for the sake of the Creators and everyone who had to share a tent with him. 

By the time he was back awake, Bull had indeed bathed and apparently slept, too. It had been another twelve hours, and this time he was allowed some meat in his broth, and more bread, and more water. Fioled came again and spoke of light, inconsequential things, gently steering the conversation away from both Dorian’s memory and captivity every time he or Bull tried to bring it up.

“We need you to rest until you’re well enough that we can travel,” she explained. “Stress is not conducive to rest.”

“Just tie me to a horse and get me to an inn,” Dorian grumbled. “I can rest while we move.”

“Yes, well, we’ll call that Plan B.”

The Chargers were too conspicuous, and too famous, to be plopped down all together on the doorstep to the Imperium. Dorian learned that their camp held a mere dozen or so, the rest being spread out in small clumps along the border, trying to blend in while sending back any reports of pursuit. Bull didn’t seem to think that would be an issue - _the Venatori are dead, Dorian, these assholes just didn’t want to admit it yet_ \- but the Chargers hadn’t gotten where they were by being stupid. At least, not entirely stupid.

Fioled let him sit up more often, then let him walk. There had obviously been more wrong with him than the stomach wound, but Dorian couldn’t remember what it might be - they’d held him for what, a week? Two? Before Bull came. Starvation could wreak havoc on the body, he supposed. He’d given Fioled’s spirit quite a task. Magical healing was, well, magic, but even a spirit healer couldn’t bring the Maker himself down to perform miracles.

But, Maker or no, slow as it was, he did start to heal.

“We should head South,” Bull said, three days after Dorian had woken, as they took a slow walk around the camp. “Stay with Cullen for a while.”

Dorian looked at him sidelong, frowning. “Why in the world would we do that?”

Bull shrugged. He was looking at the ground in front of him. After a minute he knelt, careful on his bad leg, and dug a small herb of some sort out from where it had been partly hidden behind a rock. All that time travelling with Max had rubbed off on some of them more than others. 

“Thought you might need some time away from Minrathous. Heal up, lay low while the Venatori finish guttering themselves out. See if you can finally get into Cullen’s pants.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes.

“Did you hit your head in that fight? I can’t travel halfway across Thedas. I ought to be - I don’t even know. I ought to be working on getting my damn memory back I suppose, and then I ought to be getting on with whatever I was doing that so infuriated the Venatori. I’m not going to manage that from some shithole in Southern Ferelden.”

Bull still wasn’t looking at him, which was odd almost to the point of concern. “He splits his time between Honnleath and Griffon Wing Keep these days,” he said. “The heat agrees with him.”

“Rylen agrees with him,” Dorian muttered, and stopped, tugging at Bull’s arm. “Here. Iron Bull. Look at me, will you?”

Bull did, immediately, alert and attentive like his fingers weren’t covered in dirt from scrabbling at weeds in an attempt to avoid Dorian’s gaze.

“I’m alive,” Dorian said, slowly and clearly. “And I’m very nearly well. Are you?”

“I’m alive, yes,” Bull agreed. “You almost weren’t, you know.”

“I know. Lucky Stitches shacked up with...some Inquisition woman, I gather. Lucky you had an opening.”

“Yes,” Bull agreed again. “Lucky. Stitches couldn’t have saved you. I doubt most mages could have saved you.”

A small frisson of fear raced down Dorian’s spine. “Then I’ll send him another wedding gift, considering I can’t remember the first.”

Bull almost smiled at that. “Dorian,” he murmured, touching Dorian’s jaw, tilting his chin up. “You’re alive. But are you okay?”

Dorian studied his face, and tried not to think of how he was always hungry, and jumped at loud noises, and slept with his staff gripped in his hand. Tried not to think about how his breath came short whenever the Bull was out of his sight. Tried not to think about how the loss of his memory was like carrying a big, gaping hole inside of him, and how afraid he was that it was going to swallow him up.

“I’m alive,” he insisted, softly, and leaned up to press a kiss to Bull’s lower lip. “That is what matters. And Fioled should, of course, be showered in riches.”

“Well _I_ won’t object to that.”

Bull and Dorian started and spun around as Fioled popped up behind them seemingly out of nowhere. 

“He meant metaphorical riches,” Bull cautioned, subtly grasping Dorian’s shaking hand. “You been training with Skinner?”

“No, I’m just an elf, chief,” Fioled smiled. “Light on my feet. And speaking of, the patient should be off his.”

“Magic exists,” Dorian sighed. “Why am I being treated like an invalid?”

Fioled jerked her head back to the tents, and they followed in her wake. Dorian watched her walk, could almost swear that her light, bare feet didn’t even bend the grass.

“You lost most of the blood in your body and the organs that hadn’t been sliced open were in the middle of shutting down due to starvation,” she said cheerfully, the first time she’d gone into even the slightest detail about the extent of his injuries. “My spirits can’t regenerate blood, your body needs to do that on it’s own. But I think we can travel tomorrow. Krem’s getting antsy.”

“Oh well, if _Krem_ is getting antsy,” Dorian said acerbically, and then paused, replaying some of his and Bull’s earlier conversation back in his head. “Wait, Cullen at Griffon Wing Keep? Are he and Rylen finally having an affair?”

“Not as far as we know. Dorian, you realise that he prefers women, right?” Bull said, as if he hadn't himself just used the temptation of Cullen’s charms to try and lure Dorian south.

“Yes, and _I_ prefer dark chocolate, but if someone were to put a delectable strawberry mousse in front of me I would have a hard time resisting it.”

Bull was amused. “Did you just call Rylen a strawberry mousse?”

“No, I called him a _delectable_ strawberry mousse. Though one I, alas, never got to taste.”

Fioled cocked her head to the side. “I’ve never heard Captain Rylen called a strawberry mousse before, and in the Starkhaven circle I heard him called all manner of things.”

Bull gave her a slightly alarmed look. They’d all heard the stories about the Southern Templars. They all knew Cullen.

“He wasn’t - he didn’t, uh - “

“Oh! No, nothing like that. He was good, as far as Templars go, you know. I’m glad he’s not dead.” She gave them a bright, bland smile and Dorian remembered again to be afraid of her. “He kept the worst of them in line. But he’s still a _Templar_.”

“Not anymore,” Dorian said, remembering Cullen, how Cullen had needed the break from the Order to be _clean_. “Now he’s just the Lord of Griffon Wing.”

“Max hands out lordships like candy,” Bull said, neatly skirting the subject and guiding them back to more even footing. “He made Rylen the lord of a glorified sandpit, sure, but the Orlesians won’t indulge him forever.”

“They think Max is their pet. They’ll do whatever it takes to keep him right where they want him.” They exchanged smiles, and Dorian couldn’t help but think of the year he’d lost - he didn’t know what was going on with Max and the Orlesians any more than he knew what was going on back home in Minrathous. He hoped that Bull wouldn’t have kept anything dire from him, but...

“Enough of this,” he said, gently, quietly, to the two of them as they reached the tents. “Yes, we travel tomorrow. We find an inn, we make plans, and we figure out what in the Void has happened to me.”

Neither of them mentioned the way his voice and hands were shaking. They merely nodded, and then Bull was leaving them to go find Krem and give the order to prepare to march.

~

Dorian did not wear the match to Bull’s dragon tooth.

It was too big, too obvious. He’d had a sliver of it cut out and shaped and set into a golden ring which he wore instead, among a million others. The tooth, on its rough leather thong, was in a magically guarded safe in his apartment in Minrathous. The ring, and in fact, all of his jewellery, was, of course, gone.

He wanted to ask. The Venatori surely hadn’t had time to sell it all, and Bull had ransacked the hideout. If his things were to be found, Bull would have found them. But it seemed so petty, after all, to ask about his jewels. The sending crystal that he’d used to speak with Max had been among them, though, and that seemed less petty.

He’d let his hair grow, and it was longer even than he remembered it being. He tied it in a whore’s knot and wore whatever the Chargers could lend him that fit. Krem helped. He was grateful.

He was grateful.

~

They rode a day to the east, staying south of the border but roughly parallel to it, and ended up closer to the Free Marches than Dorian would have preferred. 

“I would have had an _excuse_ to go to Orlais,” he grumbled. “I could have bought some cheese.”

“If there’s any Venatori left they will have expected you to go to your contacts in Val Royeaux,” Bull said patiently. The inn they’d found was nicer than Dorian had let himself expect, a long, low building with white stone floors and running water. Krem and Fioled were with them, the rest of the Chargers scattered through the small city. There were several guarding the building and the surrounding streets, and Dorian knew enough by now to not feel offended by this.

There was a bath, and bread, and oil and sweet, ripe tomatoes. There was wine. He would survive.

“I want my memories back.”

Bull sighed. “I want your memories back too. Get in the bath, Dorian.”

Dorian got in the bath, and Bull pulled up a stool beside it. There was always a moment, when Bull sat down, that he froze, waiting to see if his weight would send him crashing to the floor. This time it did not.

The walls were a dark blue with white trim, and a gentle breeze blew the early afternoon sunshine in through the open window. There was a lemon tree outside, bursting into bloom and sending occasional gusts of almost cloying scent through the room. Dorian sipped his wine, and waited.

“You haven’t asked about your things.”

Dorian shrugged, and sunk as far into the water as the tub would allow. It was pleasantly hot. Bull had procured soap that smelled of sandalwood and embrium. Not _Bull’s_ style at all, but he’d known Dorian would appreciate it. Dorian would have appreciated the plain, green, slightly herbaceous stuff Bull used. But he appreciated this more.

“You brought me my staff. I assumed my clothes were destroyed.”

Bull watched him for a moment.

“We found your jewellery. Max’s crystal, your chains and your...rings.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. Bull was being uncharacteristically reticent. The steam from the bath was collecting on his horns, starting to form little droplets that would fall on his bare shoulders and annoy him. He was looking out the window, and then over at his pile of gear near the bed.

“The Iron Bull, spit it out,” Dorian said, and flicked a finger, sending a small shower of droplets directly into Bull’s face. The look of surprised outrage was immediately worth it.

“ _Bastard_.”

“Indeed. What’s wrong with them?”

Bull sighed again, and rubbed a hand over his cheeks. “Nothing. They probably used some of it for blood magic, Fioled thinks. I dunno. Not my department.”

Dorian snorted, and lifted a knee out of the water. Bull’s gaze skimmed along his thigh, and skittered away. Dorian pointed his toes and stretched. “Bull.”

“Yeah Dorian?”

“Bring me my things.”

And Bull for a wonder, did as he was asked.

Dorian watched, with some trepidation, as he heaved himself from the stool and went to his pack, watched as he rummaged through it briefly and pulled out a small box.

“It’s fine, I mean, it’s all here. I don’t know why I didn’t give it to you earlier, I just.” Bull shrugged. “Seemed like so many other things to worry about.”

“Of course,” Dorian said gently. He loved his jewels. He was enough of a hedonist - maybe enough of a narcissist - to admit that. He could go without, if needed, he could wear plain leather and Krem’s simple, if exquisitely stitched, shirts. He didn’t need silver and emerald hair pins or long chains, or the snake charm he’d had since he was a boy, or the cascade of golden rings he wore like gauntlets. He didn’t need any of it. But it was his.

Bull set the box on the stool, and retreated back to the bed. Water splashed over the side of the tub as Dorian sat up and twisted, somewhat awkwardly. “Thank you, Bull,” he said, with sincerity, and opened the lid.

The smell of blood hit him first, cutting through sandalwood and embrium and lemon blossom. Someone had made an effort to clean most of it off, but not a terribly thorough effort, and the scent, along with a fine, rusting-brown crust, remained. 

Dorian wiped a hand on a towel, and used one finger to poke through the shining mess. There was the crystal, unharmed. There, his snake charm. There was a hair pin he did not recognise, but which looked like something he would own, with some of the glittering purple stones gouged out and rolling loose in the bottom of the box. Here was a tumble of gold and silverite chains, not quite hopelessly tangled, but close. How much jewellery did he wear, on an average day, a day like any other, when he might be kidnapped and tortured? This much, yes. He was vain.

There was a leather pouch pushed to one side, and in it were his rings. He tipped them onto the chair and counted in vague amusement. Two and three to a finger. A few in each ear. He didn’t wear toe rings with his boots, but he knew he _had_ toe rings. 

There. He looked at Bull through his lashes and plucked one out of the chaos, slipping it silently onto his finger. The dragon bone was warm against his skin, a tiny, eternal point of heat that meant, in his newly learned language, _kadan_.

 _Amatus_.

“Feel better?” Bull asked gently, and Dorian sank back into the tub, closing his eyes.

“This is all I need. You can throw the rest in the trash, for all I care.”

A lie, and they both knew it, but Bull let it go. He came back to kneel on the floor by Dorian’s head, and Dorian knew he should chastise him for it, for his knee, but he was feeling too selfish to do so. Large, warm hands stroked his long hair, gently working out the tangles.

“They’re probably all mine,” Dorian said, at length. “I can’t...obviously I can't remember what I was wearing that day. They look like they’re mine.”

Bull rumbled in agreement. The water was starting to cool, but in the warm air Dorian didn’t care.

“There is one that’s not,” he added, and Bull stilled. Dorian opened his eyes, looked upside down at his etched silver face.

“One of the rings,” he added. “You must have seen it. It’s far too big for me.”

With nimble fingers, Bull picked through the selection and plucked one out. It was gold. Dorian hadn’t looked at it closely, just enough to dismiss it, but he looked now, as Bull held it before his face.

The work was Tevinter, Dorian could see that. It was set with dawnstone and diamond in an intricate pattern that was pressed flush into the metal, leaving the outside smooth. It was engraved in Qunlat on the inside, which briefly made Dorian question the Tevinter provenance, but no, there. A jeweller’s mark he recognised, from a shop he himself frequented. 

“You don’t,” Bull paused, sighed, and changed the question to a statement. “You don’t remember.”

“No.” Dorian took the ring from him. It was enchanted, there would be a word, or a spell that could activate it, but Dorian didn’t know what it was. He twirled it between two fingers and tried to read the Qunlat on the inside. Something about glory, something about a shield. His Quunlat was improving, but still middling. 

The ring was far too big for his fingers, but it would fit Bull perfectly

His thoughts stuttered, and he nearly dropped it into the water.

“Have you seen this before, Iron Bull?”

“Never,” Bull said softly, and took it back from him, set it on the chair with the rest of them. “No, I’ve never seen it.”

Bull was hiding something, Dorian was sure. _Hissrad_. But he was too tired, and, presently, too comfortable to worry on it. Bull wouldn’t hurt him, or let him come to be hurt through this omission. There were too many mysteries piled one on top of another, but right now he was clean and fed and comfortable for the first time - hah - in recent memory.

He reached out and trailed a wet path up the mountains and valleys of Bull’s arm. The Qunari didn’t count the years on an individual scale, but Bull thought he was somewhere in his forties. Every year just seemed to harden him, seemed to add another layer of iron to the muscles of his arms and shoulders and chest. There were new scars, scars that Dorian didn’t recognise. There was a new tattoo. 

He wanted to know the Bull again, every inch. He wanted to possess him like he possessed his jewels and his staff and his magic. He wanted to kneel before the Bull and surrender, as a priest to an old god, he wanted to conquer and _be_ conquered. 

“Kadan,” he whispered. “Take me to bed.”

Bull stood, as tall as a citadel, and Dorian followed, water sluicing off him as he wound his dripping arms around Bull’s shoulders. The breeze blew shivers across his naked body and Bull pulled him close, lowering his great head to nuzzle at Dorian’s temple, his tender, exposed throat.

“I’ve missed you,” Bull murmured, breath hot. “I feel like I’m still missing you.”

“I'm right here. I’m with you.”

Kisses burned up his neck, and he had to cling harder, his knees wanting nothing but to give out, send him tumbling to the floor at Bull’s feet. 

He had to leave soon. Travel back to Minrathous and show up in a shower of glory, prove that he was invincible, immortal, that his enemies could try their worst and their best and still never defeat him. He had to drape himself in jewels and dress his hair, paint his face in gold and be beautiful and untouchable and powerful.

He had to leave the Iron Bull behind, again and again, for the rest of their lives.

“Please, take me to bed.”

And the Bull, who had to be left behind, again and again, obeyed.

He was hauled bodily out of the tub, and Dorian didn’t fret over Bull’s knee anymore, as he never fretted over Bull’s knee in battle. Was that what this was? Or only another way for the Bull to serve him, protect him, be his shield and his champion and his obedient servant. Lifted like he was nothing and carried through the smell of lemon blossoms to the clean, white bed. Laid down as if he were a precious sacrifice, and Dorian didn’t know who was worshipping who anymore, who belonged to who. It was easy to surrender to the knife when it was Bull who wielded it.

“They didn’t take you from my mind,” Dorian whispered, cupping Bull’s face, the sharp line of his jaw. “They couldn’t.”

Bull lowered his lashes for a moment, forehead creased in what looked like pain until Dorian pressed a thumb to it as if to smooth the lines away.

“None of this,” he said. “Bull, we’re here, now.”

“We are,” Bull agreed, and leaned down to kiss him.

The sweetness of Bull’s kisses had taken Dorian off guard at first, but now they were a balm. The heat of his mouth was searing but his lips were gentle, his sharp teeth so careful as they bit at Dorian’s tongue. Dorian moaned into it, opening himself up and sinking boneless into the bed as Bull softly took from him what they both craved.

The sun was a weak warmth on Dorian’s face. Bull propped himself up on one elbow and kissed the trail of it over his cheekbones, his brow. Dorian shuddered and gripped at one of his horns, not to steer, just to hold on lest he be swept away. 

“Will you have me?” Bull asked, his voice a low rumble in Dorian’s ear. His body was iron bound, rippling tension through his core and limbs. He could be so gentle, was so gentle, but Dorian knew how closely he had to keep himself. How tightly he was restrained, and how very much he wanted to let that restraint fall away.

He gripped the horn tighter, slung one naked thigh around Bull’s waist to draw him in.

“Do you want me, the Iron Bull?” he asked, sweet as he could, watching as the words found their mark in Bull’s flinch, his narrowing eye. 

“Dorian,” he growled, the words like an earthquake in Dorian’s chest. Dorian let his smile turn vicious. 

“You slaughtered the Venatori like wild animals. Picked me up and threw me over your shoulder to be carried away, my mercenary king in all his glory. Stood vigil over my body still covered in the blood of our enemies.” He traced light fingers over the scars on Bull’s beautiful face. “Take your spoils.”

“Fuck, Dorian,” Bull groaned, and dropped his head to Dorian’s shoulder, laying one horn across his throat as Dorian gasped out a laugh.

“My jewels are yours,” he whispered. “As is my body. It’s all yours. You should be draped in gold, dripping in diamonds and furs like the barbarian lord you are.”

Teeth sank into Dorian’s skin and he laughed again, arching up to press his body, warm and damp, against Bull’s. He was hard, and through his seasilk trousers he could feel Bull was as well, already rutting into Dorian’s belly like it was an unconscious action, as essential as his heart beating or his lungs drawing breath.

“You brought me from the brink of death,” Dorian said, one hand frantic between them to tug at Bull’s laces. “Now I’m yours to do with as you will.”

“You can’t just - you can’t just say things like that to me, kadan,” Bull groaned, tilting his head to press his horn harder for just a moment in gentle warning before easing up. He looked up at Dorian’s face, his sage-green eye serious. 

“I am, though,” Dorian smiled. “You haven’t thought about this? Taking me as plunder?”

Bull’s face went dark. He had, Dorian knew, but this kind of thing...normally it needed a night of careful negotiation to get Bull to give in to desires like this. He was too aware of his own strength, of his own nature. 

But Dorian didn’t want to be careful. He was alive, and, for a shining moment, alone with the man he loved. He was feeling reckless and weak and wild.

“My watchword stands,” he added. “ _Katoh_ , if you need to hear it. The word _you_ gave to me. Trust in it, as I do.” He slipped his hand into Bull’s trousers, palm rubbing over the thick, wet head of Bull’s cock, and Bull caught his breath. “Shall I beg?”

“You don’t need to beg for me, kadan.” Bull reared up on his knees over Dorian’s prone body, shoving his trousers down his thighs and crumpling the beautiful fabric. He was, in his own ways as vain as Dorian. The pampered princeling and his proud mercenary lord. Dorian smiled at the picture they made.

“I would buy you a castle,” he mused, as Bull reached into the pile of gear near the bed for his oil. “A fortress for you and and the Chargers. A throne for you to lounge on.” He reached out a hand and cupped Bull’s cheek. “Would you keep me at your feet?”

“Maybe laid naked over my lap,” Bull allowed. “Covered in gold.”

And oh, that gave Dorian ideas. 

He sat up, pausing to grip Bull and pull him into an almost violent kiss, and then slipped from the bed to find the makeshift jewellery box. 

“Sit, my lord,” he said, and, standing nude in the golden sunlight that still bathed the centre of the room, started draping himself.

The chains were still tangled but he paid that no mind, layering them over his shoulders and wrapping them around his neck like scarves. He pulled back his hair and caught it in the amethyst pin, leaving some wet strands to hang around his face and catch on his neck. There were earrings; he’d been wearing a pair of long, dangling ones that he remembered from years ago, favourites, golden with balls of amber caught in the delicate chains like raindrops. Bangles and cuffs for his wrists. Rings slipped on haphazardly and oh, everything still touched with blood, the smell of it stronger now and mixing with their sweat, the sharp scent of their wet cocks.

“Is this pleasing?”

Bull was sitting at the side of the bed now, legs spread and feet planted on the floor. Dorian could see him as the mercenary lord, the barbarian king, see him enthroned in a firelit hall, surrounded by his warriors and his plunder and his loyal servants.

“Come here,” Bull said, deep voice filling the room, filling the spaces in Dorian’s body until he was vibrating, his very blood singing. He fell to the floor graceless between Bull’s legs and gazed up at him. Still weak, still tired, not yet well, he surrendered to his savior.

Their eyes met.

“Will you be mine?” Bull asked, and Dorian smiled.

“I already am.”

Large hands stroking through his hair, over his cheeks, tilting his jaw.

“Open your mouth, kadan,” Bull said. “That’s it. That’s perfect.”

A thumb dipping in, pressing against his tongue. It tasted like soap and blood. Bull grasped his jaw and held it open, staring into Dorian’s face like it held all the secrets of the universe. Dorian shivered at the brush of gold and silver against his bare bronze skin, and Bull smiled.

“You’re something else, Dorian,” he said, and brought the head of his cock to Dorian’s wet, parted lips.

Dorian closed his eyes, breathing deep through his nose, and took Bull inside of him. Oh, how he loved this, how he wanted this, the strain at the hinges of his jaw as he struggled to accommodate the width of it, the clench at the back of his throat as Bull pushed deeper, the overwhelming heat and smell and taste. He licked as best he could, sucked when he was able, but Bull was too big, really. It wasn’t like being with a human man, not even like being with a larger-than-average human man. Bull was shaped differently, filled the spaces of his mouth and throat until Dorian could really only be a vessel, something warm and soft and wet for Bull to thrust into. He didn’t mind, he _craved_ it, that sense of _succumbing_. 

This, this, he had this. Nothing had been taken from him, he was alive, he had Bull, the wide head of Bull’s cock forcing him open, the gentle ridges on the underside sliding against his lower lip. There was a scar even here, a small nick around the length of Dorian’s thumbnail that he liked to seek out with his tongue. Bull had just laughed when Dorian asked about it, and reassured him that it no longer hurt, yeah sure, you can play with it, Dorian, go ahead…

Bull, his Bull. Mercenary, barbarian, hero of the Holy Inquisition, favourite of Lord Trevelyan, renowned through Orlais and Ferelden. His. _His_.

“Dorian,” Bull sighed, gentle hands implacably pulling Dorian down onto his cock, over and over. “Wish I could keep you here forever.”

 _Yes_.

Fuck Tevinter. Fuck it all. To give it all away and stay a pampered slave at the Iron Bull’s knee, in a beautiful room that smelled like blood and flowers and sex...

He opened his eyes and looked up into Bull’s ragged, ruined, impossibly gorgeous face. _Yes_ , he said, silently lying. _Yes_ , and _yes_.

The fantasy surrounded them, as fragile as a soap bubble. Bull reached a hand down to Dorian’s chains, twisting them around his fingers and pulling. Dorian’s back arched, he was choking, tears springing to his eyes and drool slipping from the stretched corners of his mouth. He wondered idly what the healer would think if she saw them like this, after her stern warnings that he not exert himself. He didn’t care, he didn’t. Bull’s thick thighs pressed against him, the soft-hard-soft flesh of his belly, the easy give of his balls, inhumanly large, pushing against his chin. It was filthy, inelegant, inescapably _carnal_. 

When he was a young man Dorian had thrown himself head first into the worst brothels in Minrathous, chasing after even a taste of this. And none of the debauchery, the whoring and drinking, the orgies, the depravity - none of it compared to the feeling of being on his knees for this giant, dripping with gold and sweat and choking on his beautiful, alien cock. 

“Kadan, I could spend in your pretty mouth right now,” Bull breathed, tugging on the chains. “Or all over your pretty face, if you like. Makes a nice picture, something to keep me warm, something to remember when you’re gone.”

Dorian closed his eyes again, and Bull’s hand gentled. “Or you could come up here. I don’t wanna wear you out, but...fuck, kadan, come up here, come here to me-”

And then Dorian’s mouth was empty, flooding with saliva as Bull was ripped away, and he was tugged up onto Bull’s lap, his own legs tossed awkwardly around Bull’s hips as he was pulled close.

“Bull,” Dorian moaned, his voice sounding raspy and broken to his own ears. His lips felt bruised and swollen as Bull kissed him, his whole body tender. He draped his arms around Bull’s huge neck, those massive muscles that held his great head, his horns. The weight of the world could settle on Bulls shoulders, Dorian thought, and Bull would bear it.

Bull would bear it.

He sagged into Bull’s chest and sighed, kisses sloppy and wet. “Make me come,” he whispered. “Make us both-”

“Yeah, I got it, I got us,” Bull promised, and Dorian’s cock, bronze as the rest of him, flushing deeper and darker at the head, was nestled in against the silver-purple of Bull’s. Bull wrapped one arm around Dorian’s waist to hold him close and took them together in his other. His calloused palm pushed Dorian against those swells and ridges, and he rocked them together, setting a loose, lazy rhythm that nonetheless threatened to sweep Dorian away all too soon.

The flask of oil lay next to them, abandoned in the covers, and Dorian picked it up, fumbling for a moment before his thumb managed to slip the cork out. Bull let out a deep, slow breath as Dorian upended it between their bodies, drenching them in the sweet slipperiness of it. Everything then was slick and soft, the heat between them growing, Bull’s grip tightening, those bumps on his shaft hardening as Bull came close, again, to spilling.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” Dorian whispered, watching as the blood flushed Bull’s cock a deeper purple. “Thinking of this. Maker, but that must have been a glorious battle to free me, and no release at the end of it. Oh, _Bull_.” He rocked his hips, muscles flexing and tensing, already aching and sore. “You stood watch over me, dripping in their blood. My Reaver. My warlord. You slaughtered them for me and now you can finally let go. Make me yours again, Amatus. Come for me, and on me, and make me _yours_.”

When Bull came, his body, for an instant, turned to stone. Every muscle tensed and hardened and Dorian felt himself melt against it,collapsing forward against the wall of Bull’s chest even as Bull pumped his released all over them - so much, so much more than a human and Dorian was almost ashamed of how much he loved that, just another reminder that Bull was different. He let out a low, satisfied moan as he felt Bull cover him, the seed hot and thick, and almost overwhelming in volume. 

“Oh, yes,” he moaned. “Fucking glorious, Bull. Oh, fuck, yes, cover me -”

Bull was on him, pushing him back on the bed, cock still spurting as he held Dorian down and used his own spend to ease the way as he pumped Dorian, his grip and pace unforgiving, driving him relentlessly towards the cliff edge of his orgasm.

“Dorian,” Bull growled in his ear. “Say it again. Say you’re mine.”

And Dorian almost screamed as he obeyed, surrendering to the only thing in his life he could still be sure of - that he was Bull’s, he was Bull’s, and Bull could still give him this.


	2. The Border

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull travels to Nevarra to meet Dorian at his new border villa.
> 
> _The sun was going down, but they were at the height of summer now and it was still hot. Bull could feel the thick sweat gathering under his arms, making his harness slick and uncomfortable, despite the soft cotton padding Krem had made for it. He was in sore need of a bath, gritty from the scrubby, sandy land, tired and thirsty and filthy. He stepped out into the red light of the setting sun, and headed towards the house._
> 
> _He’d left Dorian six months ago._

The villa, surrounded by thick, overgrown gardens and a crumbling stone wall, could use some work.

Bull wasn’t exactly sure which side of the border they were technically on anymore. Nevarra and Tevinter blended together confusingly here, and as the land in the area wasn't great for vineyards or farms, neither side cared too much. If he had to guess, he’d guess he was still in Nevarra. It didn’t really matter.

The town was only barely a town. A tavern, an empty market square, an apothecary, a general store and a tiny chantry all sat haphazardly around a slight widening in the road. A sprinkling of cottages stood close by, and a few old villas and farmhouses spread out along a little scatterbrained stream that bustled through the light woods on the way to a river somewhere in Tevinter.

The Chargers, the majority of them, had taken over the tavern. They were heading east, from a job in Orlais, and in a few weeks they were going to meet up with a contact in Nevarra near the Imperial highway. This was just a stop along the way, a few days to rest the horses and let the boys let off steam - under Krem’s watchful eye, of course.

The scent of the eucalyptus trees filled Bull’s lungs as he made his way through the rusted gate, walking his horse carefully over the broken cobbles that were once a path. There were stables to the left of the main building and he picked his way over to them first. They needed a fresh coat of paint but they weren’t in danger of falling down any time soon, and Bull smiled to find fresh water and feed, and a beautiful, sleek golden horse already dozing away in a stall.

He saw to Anaan quickly but thoroughly, and left him with a kiss on the nose and instructions to be nice to the pretty gelding.

The sun was going down, but they were at the height of summer now and it was still hot. Bull could feel the thick sweat gathering under his arms, making his harness slick and uncomfortable, despite the soft cotton padding Krem had made for it. He was in sore need of a bath, gritty from the scrubby, sandy land, tired and thirsty and filthy. He stepped out into the red light of the setting sun, and headed towards the house.

He’d left Dorian six months ago.

Dorian, who still jumped at loud noises, Dorian who hadn’t realised how much weight he’d lost, who didn’t have any real idea of how long he’d been held by the Venatori, Dorian whose memory was like a scrambled egg. He’d sent him back to Minrathous alone, back in amongst the wolves and vipers. The knowledge that Dorian had allies - powerful ones, by all accounts - wasn’t enough to assuage the guilt, the bone deep conviction that Bull should have gone with him.

“It would be suicide,” Dorian had explained to him gently. “For both of us, really. Are you so eager to do their job for them, Bull?”

Bull had just glared, because he knew Dorian was right, but he couldn’t bring himself to go down without a fight.

It hadn’t mattered, of course. Magister Pavus had recovered enough that he could stride into the Imperium as if he’d decided to merely take a lovely seaside holiday, tall and bronze and covered in his gold like it was armour. Bull knew, he understood, that Dorian needed to be untouched, unbothered, even slightly amused at the kidnapping attempt. It had been the Venatori’s last big shot, they didn’t have enough in them to try something like that again any time soon. And Dorian had withstood it and come back dripping in jewels and disdain.

It was important.

It had still almost killed Bull.

The Chargers had escorted Dorian to the Imperial Highway, and there they had parted ways, Dorian turning north on a borrowed horse, and the Chargers south, riding hard down and then back west into Orlais. The highway had taken them to the Western Approach and it hadn’t been much of a ride, after that, to get to Griffon Wing Keep.

Bull had thought about how he’d tried to tempt Dorian down there. Imagined nights up drinking with Rylen and Cullen under the endless stars of the desert. Imagined Dorian accompanying the Chargers on a trip out to clean up some wyverns or varghests. Dorian complained about the heat, but it was just habit, really, he vastly preferred it to cold and snow. He’d liked being out in the Approach, back in the day with the boss. It was...Bull liked it too, and _really_ liked seeing Rylen and Cullen, but he would have liked it a hell of a lot better if Dorian was with them.

The best thing about ex-Templars, Bull thought, as the Chargers picked up a few jobs in the area and were invited to use the Keep as their base for as long as they liked, was that they didn’t ask too many questions. Cullen and Rylen were dealing with enough of their own personal shit, and it didn’t make them cold or uninterested or uncaring, but it gave them the wisdom to leave things well enough alone. Cullen did ask about Dorian, got the basics of the story and went stony faced as he asked if Bull needed him to go north and knock some heads together. Bull appreciated it, told him that he’d handled shit, and appreciated it more when Cullen let it go.

They’d been there for several months, raking in the pay from all the rich Orlesian nobs who couldn’t be bothered dealing with their problems themselves, before Bull had received a particular letter from Dorian.

_“It's nothing much, a bit old and rundown, but I’m eccentric enough to get away with wanting a holiday villa out of the way of the city. I’m not planning on staffing it yet, but I’ll go out in the summer and look around the place, see if its worth putting in a few vines.”_

In code, an address and a date.

The villa had been beautiful in its day, still had a different, wild beauty to it now. The gardens grew in a chaotic rush right up to the deep terrace that spanned the entire house, vines twisting around white marble, red carnations, bluebells, brilliant pink and yellow lantana crawling up the deep blue stucco. It was a riot of colour and decay, and Bull immediately, instinctively, loved it.

He eyed the stairs up to the terrace dubiously as he put his weight on them, but they held, and he had the feeling that the place was probably structurally in pretty good shape, for all the marble railing was chipped and the stucco was falling down in places, giving way to the weight of the lantana. He thought of Dorian walking through the place with the previous owners, pointing all this out, probably paying through the nose for it anyway because it was beautiful, and Dorian craved beauty. Thought of Dorian sitting out here alone - there was a new couch set out near the door, a tiny table next to it. Dorian, lazing in the shade drinking sweet, crisp white wine, Dorian writing his endless letters and reading his endless books and trying to change the world.

The front door opened at the slightest press of his fingers.

“It certainly took you long enough.”

And there, in the dim half light of the entrance, a glass of wine in one hand and a small ball of magelight in the other, stood Dorian, and Bull felt like he could breathe properly for the first time in six long months.

“Kadan,” he groaned, and dropped his gear on the floor, reaching for Dorian, ignoring his pristine white robes, to tug that long, smooth body close, knowing he was filthy with dust and sweat and horse and _not caring._ And Dorian let him, let the light blink out and the wine spill a little as Bull gathered him up, bending to bury his face in the sweetness of Dorian’s neck. “Kadan, kadan, _Dorian_.”

“ _Tam te desiderabam_ ,” Dorian was whispering, “Bull, come here.” He was going to drop the wine glass, neither of them cared.

“I’m here, _kost, kadan. Parshaara, kost_.” For Dorian was shaking, his whole body trembling in Bull’s hold. Bull drew him in, and then down to the floor, terracotta tiles warm and smooth beneath them, and then Dorian did drop the wine but neither paid it any mind. “ _Asalari_ ,” Bull crooned. Dorian had cut his hair, and Bull pressed his lips to the soft waves of it. “ _Parshaara, parshaara_. I’m here kadan. I’m here now.”

They sat there, curled up together on the floor, until the sun finished going down and the house grew dim, and then dark around them. Bull felt every grain of dirt on his skin, every dried streak of sweat, every inch of filth, and didn’t care. Dorian was in his arms. Dorian was in his arms.

Eventually, they stopped shaking.

“You stink,” Dorian murmured into his chest, and Bull nodded, stroking his hair.

“Yeah.”

“Maker, I even missed that.”

Bull laughed. “You’ve always liked it, Dorian. Don’t be shy.”

“Ugh.” But when Dorian finally pulled away, just enough to gaze up at Bull’s face, he was smiling. “Hello, Bull.”

“Hey, Dorian,” Bull smiled back. “Real nice place you got here.”

Dorian looked around, as if realising for the first time they were on the floor. Wine - at least it was white wine - was soaking into his robes and Bull’s trousers, and Bull had gotten smears of dirt and dust all over Dorian’s robes. He sighed deeply and climbed to his feet, offering a hand to Bull, who laughed softly as he took it.

“Isn’t it? Mae wants to descend on the place with an army of gardeners and architects, but I rather like it as it is. Come on. _Andraste_ , you need a bath, Bull, why didn’t you say anything?” But he knew why, and merely pulled Bull along through the dark house, throwing out his free arm here and there as he pointed out various rooms.

“I’ll give you a proper tour in the morning, it’s really designed to be seen in sunlight. Here, the plumbing still works - it’s the only thing I cared about, really, that and that the roof wasn’t going to fall on my head in my sleep. The tub is big enough for you, you beast, look. It's the only thing-” here he broke off, and looked at Bull almost sheepishly. “I had it custom made. There’s a dwarven stonesmith in the village, and - well.” Dorian twisted his hand a little and threw it out before him, sending sparks of magelight through the room. The house was in a kind of horseshoe shape around a central courtyard, and Dorian had taken him all the way around the right wing, through a spacious bedroom, and into a bathing room, tiled in marble, a beautiful, shining new tub in pride of place under a large window.

Dorian was right. It was big enough for Bull.

“That must have cost a fortune, kadan,” Bull said, tugging Dorian back to his side.

Dorian shrugged. “My father left me more gold than I have any idea what to do with. Most of it goes into political _kaffas_ , but I still have...spending money.”

“I like it,” Bull declared, and grinned. “Feel kinda like a kept boy. A lot of the noble ladies I used to help out were into that kinda thing too. Hey Dorian, you wanna play-” and then he was dissolving into laughter as Dorian slapped him across the chest, moustache twitching in disdain.

“Keep talking and I’ll send you away again, the Iron Bull,” he said archly, hands on his hips. “Do shut up and take your clothes off.”

“See, yeah, that’s the idea!” Bull grinned, and stepped away from another slap, still laughing.

The room glittered with Dorian’s gold and purple lights. A soft breeze blew through the window and Bull was reminded, inevitably, of another bath in another Nevarran town. Watching Dorian pretend to be well, pretend that his mind wasn’t still struggling to grasp what had happened to him as he picked through a box of bloody jewellery with a carefully blank face. Seeing no light of recognition as he drew out the ring that - but no. No. Bull wouldn’t think of that, not yet, not _now_.

Not now.

“Dorian,” Bull said softly. “Just tell me one thing. Are you...are you okay?”

And Dorian’s smile was like the fresh breeze through the window. _"Vero, amate, tibi promitto._ ”

“Oh, if you’re speaking old Tevene at me you must be serious,” Bull said, sitting on a low bench to start removing his brace and boots.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Too much time around magisters, I’m afraid. But yes, Bull. I’m fine, I promise.” He dropped to his knees before Bull and started to help with his boots. “Just...let me do this. Get clean, wash away the road. I have good food and good wine and there is only so much time.” He looked up at Bull, eyes wide and sparking violet in the light. “Amatus. Let me take care of you.”

Well. Bull knew better than to say no to that.

_It seemed like there were as many stars in the sky as grains of sand on the ground, out in the desert. Bull sat out on Cullen’s balcony and tipped his head back, watching them, as Cullen quietly sat next to him and sipped at his ale. The desert air was good for Cullen. He was spending less and less time in Ferelden, his Templar Sanctuary was thriving under the careful hands of Ser Barris and he was half thinking of opening another one closer to Griffon Wing Keep. He and Rylen were almost inseparable. Bull didn’t think they were actually sleeping together, but it didn’t seem to matter. There was something peaceful about being with them, Even as his blood seemed to run constantly cold with worry for Dorian. They eased him._

_“Bull,” Cullen said softly, and gently touched Bull’s elbow with his freezing fingers. “I hate talking, but I can listen. Maybe you’ll never want to tell me, or tell anyone. But don’t think you_ can’t _.”_

_Bull smiled at the stars._

_“You know we were going to get married.”_

_Cullen heaved a deep sigh, took a larger swallow of his ale. “Yes.”_

_“He doesn’t remember.”_

_“Oh, Bull.”_

_Bull shrugged. Dorian didn’t remember_ anything _. It wasn’t personal. But it had felt personal. All their planning, their dreams, their stupid, idle talk… Bull hadn’t even_ cared _about marriage at first, only wanted it because Dorian wanted it, and he would do anything for Dorian. But once the idea had been raised… It was almost subversive, to think of being wed. He wasn’t Qunari anymore, but it was still a bizarre idea, to him. It was exciting, and the more he thought about it, the more excited he’d been._

_He’d had a ring made for Dorian, and knew Dorian had had one made for him; he’d written letters about it._

_“Fioled didn’t want me to mention it. She said any kind of...shock, or upset, might tip the balance. I dunno. I kinda wish I had.”_

_“It meant so much to you. To both of you,” Cullen said softly, and smiled a little as Rylen came out to join them “If he doesn’t remember, Bull, even if he never does…” he paused as Rylen sat next to him, and the stars in the sky all seemed to be in their eyes as their gazes met. Bull felt his heart skip a beat or two, the need for Dorian almost overwhelming. Cullen and Rylen loved each other, no matter what they decided to call it. It was simultaneously beautiful and utterly heart wrenching for Bull to see, knowing what he’d left behind at the other end of the world._

_“He’ll say yes again,” Cullen finally finished, looking back at Bull. “If you ask. I think he’d say yes a thousand times. You haven’t lost anything, not really.”_

_He’ll say yes again._

The water was barely lukewarm and felt like heaven against Bull’s hot, gritty skin. He stood over a drain and sluiced a few jugs over himself first, rinsing the top layers of road dirt away, before sinking into the deep, cool tub with a long sigh. “Ahh, Dorian,” he moaned. “You’re gonna spoil me. Keep this up and you’ll never be rid of me, kadan.”

Dorian paused, and then gave a light, stilted laugh. “Oh goodness me, we wouldn’t want that, would we,” he murmured, and pulled the bench over to the side of the tub. before stripping off his robes and settling down in just leggings and a light undershirt. He sat himself on the bench and took up the water jug. “Imagine that. You really could be my kept boy.”

“No complaints here,” Bull said, and sank himself as low as he could - which was lower than he was used to, in southern baths. He let his mind touch on the idea, and then dance away. Even if the Chargers decided to settle in Nevarra for a while and set up a base of operations, it was too dangerous to stay at a place so easily linked to Magister Pavus. And Dorian was, of course, needed in Minrathous.

He hummed in appreciation as Dorian rubbed a cloth, covered in a sweet smelling yellow soap, roughly over his shoulders, down his chest. “Oh, that’s good,” he rumbled, and was rewarded with Dorian’s smile. “Kadan, I’m extra dirty right between my-”

The cloth hit him in the face, and Dorian sat back. “Alright then, you can finish that yourself,” he sighed, but the smile was still there, and Bull grinned to see it.

“Hey Dorian?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“Kiss me?”

And Dorian, moustache wet, suds on his hands and dripping from his sleeves, leaned in and did.

~

Later, after more kissing than bathing, Bull finally heaved himself from the bath and allowed Dorian to dry him off and lead him into the bedroom. Allowed himself to be laid down and plied with cold wine and even colder water, a platter of summer fruit, rolls of thick, crusty bread slathered in salty butter. He allowed Dorian to talk to him of the land around the estate, how terrible it was for both farming and vineyards in a number of different ways, and how the owner of the apothecary in town was a terrible thief who reminded him of a somewhat taller Varric, and how he’d had the bath, bedroom and kitchens furnished but hadn’t gotten around to the rest of the estate yet, and so on and so forth, as he massaged Bull’s bad ankle with a new oil (from the thieving apothecary, evidently). Bull listened attentively, because it was Dorian, and because all of this shit would have interested in him in just about any other situation. But he could tell Dorian was prevaricating, and Dorian knew Bull was just waiting him out.

Eventually, after a detailed accounting of how Dorian was planning on restoring the inner courtyard, Bull reached up a hand and gently covered his mouth.

“So hey,” he said casually, stroking the knuckles of his other hand softly over Dorian’s cheekbone. “You ever get your memories back?”

Dorian just blinked at him, and after a moment Bull realised that if he wanted an answer, he was going to have to let Dorian go.

“Well,” Dorian said, when he could talk again. He gaze was clear and steady, and met Bull head on as he replied. “No.”

Ah, fuck.

~

It had, of course, been blood magic.

“Mae, thank the Maker, was at her Minrathous estate, and it was lucky I sought her out first because I had evidently changed apartments in the year I lost - and well done me, because they were quite an upgrade,” Dorian started, after opening a fresh bottle of wine and settling with Bull against the pillows. He went on to explain that Mae had taken him immediately to a Lucerni physician and theoretical (“mostly theoretical, anyway”) expert in blood magic, one Cato Etampius, and thus began several weeks of testing, treatment, and experimentation.

“Almost a pity you didn’t leave any for questioning, Amatus. Almost.”

There had been several layers of spellwork laid upon him, wrought with several different sources of blood - his own, and the blood of the Venatori Dorian himself had helpfully killed for them. They’d ascertained that they’d taken his memories from him in chunks, starting from the day of capture and reaching backwards, and that if he hadn’t been saved they probably would have kept going until he was either dead or useless.

At this point Bull had had to stand, pace around the room in fury as his blood boiled in his veins and his reaver instincts sang to him. Dorian watched him, never took his eyes _off_ him, and sipped his wine.

“They’re dead, Bull. That cell, they’re dead. You killed them all. You never told me how many.”

 _Dozens_.

“Can you get that year back?” Bull asked, staring out the window.

A soft sigh.

“No. We don’t think so. Bull, come here, please.”

Bull growled, and paced some more, before finally spinning around and sitting heavily on the side of the bed. There was a stone in his heart. He couldn't comprehend the fury, the violence that was ringing through him, the sadness.

He thought of the wedding ring that he hadn’t been meant to see, and wondered what Dorian had ended up doing with it.

He flinched as Dorian laid a cool hand on the back of his neck.

“Amatus. My love,” Dorian whispered, and knelt up behind him, pressed lips wet from wine against his shoulder. “They did not take you from me.”

“They _did_ ,” Bull said, the words wrenched from him almost against his will. “You don’t know.”

Impossibly, he felt Dorian smile against his skin.

“Oh but I do,” he whispered, and tugged at Bull, urged him to turn around. His eyes were so wide, a bright, luminous grey in the moon-and-magelight that filled the room. “Kadan, the memories are gone, but that year still _happened_.”

Bull closed his eye.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Dorian chided, softled brushing fingertips over his lashes. “Kadan, why are you hiding from this? Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

Dorian climbed into his lap, wrapped strong, thick thighs around his waist, strong arms around his neck. Dorian smelled of sweet wine and fruit, clean linen, the medicinal herbs in the oil he’d used on Bull’s leg. His weight was welcome, a small, heavy, slightly damp furnace in the heat of the night.

Bull pulled him close, and opened his eye again.

“Know _what_ , kadan?”

Dorian smiled at him.

“There is nothing that any of them could have done, nothing in this world, that could have changed the way I feel for you, you great fool. You think you’re getting out of it that easy? Honestly?”

Bull’s heart thumped painfully in his chest, and Dorian spread a hand over it. He could have reached in and grabbed at the heart itself, and Bull would have let him.

“Ask me again,” Dorian whispered. “I know it was you who ended up actually asking, I would have been far too big a coward. Say the words, Bull, _exactly_ as you said them the first time.”

Surely Dorian could feel the uneven, stuttering beat. It didn’t matter. It was his, anyway, Bull’s heart. He could deal with the shoddy workmanship of it.

Bull licked dry lips.

“I said,” he started, and then quirked a soft smile. “Dorian, I said, uh… ‘Fine, if you wanna get hitched so fucking bad I’ll do it. I’ll even do it in a fucking Chantry if you want, you pretentious little shit. Just get back over here and stop sulking.’”

Dorian’s eyes widened, and Bull laughed.

“Probably should have dressed it up a little more for the second time round, huh.”

“You beast,” Dorian breathed, but Bull could see it, the humour hiding in the set of his mouth, the glint in his eyes. “And I said yes to this?”

“Oh shit yeah you did,” Bull rumbled. His heart was still pounding, but the night suddenly seemed softer, sweeter, as it pressed in around them. “You promised.”

Dorian’s face was gentle, it almost hurt Bull to see it. “We were to be wed. You agreed to that, for me.”

“It’s...important to you,” Bull said. He wanted to hide from this, in a way that he hadn’t the first time. So much had changed, and yet nothing, really, had.

“In a Chantry?”

“If we can find a Chantry that’ll perform the ceremony.” Bull shrugged. “Whatever you want, Dorian.”

Dorian’s eyes were bright. “That ring. It was yours. I had it made for you. Mae and I took it to the jeweler in Minrathous. He wanted to know if there was something wrong with it.”

“It was perfect,” Bull said fervently. “Did you keep it?”

“I did.” Dorian’s lips twitched. “You can’t have it, yet.”

“But I can have it?” He took Dorian’s face in his hands, marvelled again at the beauty of it, his burnished shin, his shining grey eyes, they sweet sensuality of his full lips. He ran his thumbs over Dorian’s cheekbones. There were fine lines at the corner of his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth, almost hidden by his moustache. Bull wanted to kiss them.

“You can.” Dorian sighed, pressed into Bull’s touch. “ _Vishante kaffas_ , I missed you. I missed the Chargers. I hate - I hate that I can’t remember Stitches leaving, can’t remember you hiring Fioled. And there is so much work I’ve lost, Bull, in the Senate. I took notes, kept journals, but it’s not the same.” He closed his eyes for a moment, lax in Bull’s grasp.

“But they _won’t_ take our marriage from me.”

“I want to kill them again,” Bull growled. For a second, he could smell the blood again, the way he’d let it stain his skin for days as he waited for Dorian to wake. “I’d kill them a thousand more times, Dorian.”

“I’d let you.” Dorian tipped his head forward in Bull’s hold, rested his forehead against Bull’s cheek.

Bull kissed his hair.

“Hey,” he said. “Fuck, hey, Kadan. Enough of this now. Yeah? Come on. I get enough of this sappy shit from Krem and Fioled in camp, I don’t think I can keep it up much longer. We’re here, now. Fuck everything else. Yeah? Fuck it.”

Dorian shook against him, and after a moment Bull realised it was with laughter. He smiled into the air.

“Fuck it,” Dorian agreed. ‘Yes. Good idea, actually.”

Bull tipped backwards onto the bed, drawing Dorian with him, holding him against his chest.

He liked the haircut. Liked the softness of those almost-curls, the way they tickled his skin.

“Fioled wants to see you,” Bull murmured as Dorian settled himself, curling into his side. “And Krem. And the rest of the idiots, probably.”

“I want to see the idiots,” Dorian sighed. “So, Fioled and Krem, is it?”

Bull rolled is eye. “If they ever get their shit together, yeah.”

And he reached for the wine, and launched into the details, Dorian warm against him, as the night hummed softly around them.

~

Bull woke with the sun, Dorian snoring softly at his side, wrapped in miles of white linen sheets, his hair a mess. He kissed Dorian’s cheek, then his neck, until Dorian half woke and growled at him, freeing one hand from the sheets enough to press it against Bull’s face and push it away. Bull chucked gently and left him to sleep, getting up and ambling naked to the washroom.

Dorian’s new villa truly was beautiful. After washing, Bull slipped into some trousers and took it upon himself to wander around. Most of the rooms were empty or in shambles, pieces of old, broken furniture stacked in corners, mosaics with chipped and missing tiles, more than one shattered window pane. But the bones of a truly spectacular house were still standing, and strong. Bright, golden morning light saturated the eastern-most rooms, including Dorian’s bedroom and his large, near empty kitchen. There were a few bags of stores in the pantry - dried fruit, bread, a popular local grain that was prepared by soaking it in stock and often served wrapped in vine leaves. There was a dwarven-made cool box with olives and cheese and milk. There was a Tevinter coffee pot on the hob, and a tightly sealed box of coffee beans on a marble bench, the likes Bull hadn’t seen since he was in Qunander.

Bull shrugged, and set some water to boil, fixing himself a strong cup, though there was no sugar to be found.

Outside, the sun was creeping over the horizon, turning the sky a series of brilliant reds and yellows and peaches. Bull leaned on the terrace railing and sipped his bitter coffee, smelling the oleanders and the green, chlorophyll-rich scent of the overgrown gardens.

Again he let himself imagine staying there. Setting up a base for the crew, shifting the bulk of his operations from Orlais to Nevarra. Skinner spoke the language, he was pretty sure, and Krem was a quick study.

He could travel with the Chargers, make money, and come back to his - his husband.

“Fuck,” he whispered with feeling, and drained his coffee. It was a dream, it wasn’t real.

He had to know that what he had was enough.

After some time, when the sun was well and truly up and he’d seen to the horses and gone for a walk around the grounds, he went back inside to find Dorian.

“Oh, there you are,” Dorian mumbled, slumped over the kitchen counter, looking up from his own cup of very black, very thick coffee. “Why are you awake?”

“Sun’s been up for hours, Kadan,” Bull smiled. “Tevinter’s made you soft.”

“Mmm,” Dorian agreed, and shrugged. “Nowhere to be, nothing to do. Have you eaten?”

They made their breakfast - bread and cheese, olives for Dorian, tough strips of jerky for Bull - and ate it out on one of the terraces. Bull tried not to be too obvious in the way he was staring at Dorian, sleepy and beautiful in the morning light, his moustache askew, hair rumpled.

He thought of how he looked covered in gold and how he looked covered in blood, in the midst of battle, with lightning crackling along his fingertips. Thought that there wasn’t a moment of his life that he didn’t look beautiful.

“There isn’t a word in Qunlat for husband,” he said, quietly. He didn’t know...exactly what he was driving at, and looked away at Dorian’s curious glance, looked out over the trees.

“Well there’s plenty in common, plenty in Tevene,” Dorian said, gently and Bull nodded, shrugged, only for Dorian to sigh.

“Tal Vashoth _marry_ , Bull,” he said, ignoring Bull’s slight flinch. “You’re not exactly breaking new ground.”

“No, I know, I just.” Bull shrugged. “There are a lotta compound words in Qunlat. Maybe I just need to make up my own.”

The smile Dorian gave him was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud and Bull smiled back, helplessly.

 _Beautiful_.

~

Later, they saddled the horses and headed down to the little village, the tavern where Krem and Fioled and Dalish were waiting to fuss over Dorian and be excited to see him. He took it as his due, sitting regally in his rickety tavern chair like a prince, gold and silver chains glinting in the firelight, crystals in his ears, rings on his fingers. Grim bought him a beer. Skinner stopped cleaning her nails with her stiletto and slipped it back into its sheath. Bull couldn’t remember the last time his rabble had been so well behaved.

“The day after tomorrow, Chief,” Krem said quietly at one point, as they watched Dorian and Fioled bend their heads together, having a private, animated conversation. “If we want to get to that Nevarran job in time.”

“Yeah.”

“And if we’re gonna start taking on more jobs in Nevarra we’re gonna have to be on time. We don’t have much of a reputation here yet.”

Bull grunted and took a swig of ale. “Who’s running this operation, Krem?”

Krem shrugged. “Me? Because you’re on leave and you left me in charge?”

Bull narrowed his eye but didn’t argue, because Krem was right. And one day, Krem was going to be running his own company. Bull didn’t like to think that that day might come sooner than he wanted it to.

“How’s Dorian really?”

Bull watched Dorian tracing some kind of diagram in a moisture ring on the table as Fioled nodded along in interest, her amber eyes glowing in the lamplight. It was warm in the bar and Dorian’s hair was curling a little at the temples. He’d forgotten his handkerchief and so was clutching Bull’s in his free hand, monogrammed in pink by one of the newer Chargers whose interests included assassination, poison, and embroidery.

Bull thought again about leaving them to stay with Dorian and the idea pierced his heart in a different, but just as painful way as the idea of leaving Dorian behind did. He needed _both_.

And he knew that for Dorian, the thought of leaving his beloved, broken, viper’s pit of an Imperium was much the same.

He sighed.

“He’s good. As good as he’s going to get, probably. His memories aren’t going to come back, but...it could have been worse.”

Krem nodded and fussed with his mug, turning it about in his hands.

“And, uh. The whole...are you still…”

Bull smiled.

“Yeah. I asked again. We’re still...we’re gonna get married, I guess.”

Krem’s eyes lit up and he reached out with his free hand to slap the back of Bull’s head, right where the tough, keratinous ridges of his horns gave way to soft skin, right where it _hurt_.

“Chief! Are you fucking serious? So why are you sitting here like a sad sack of nug shit? We should be celebrating!”

“Krem-”

“ _Hey boys, the chief’s getting hitched_!” Krem yelled, standing up and leaning over the table to signal the put upon looking serving girl. “Next round’s on The Iron _fucking_ Bull!”

“Koslun’s fucking balls,” Bull muttered, sneaking a glance at Dorian, who looked somewhat alarmed, but not upset.

“Discretion still not your thing, Bull?”

Bull rubbed at his jaw. “Secrecy still yours?”

Dorian paused for a moment and then smirked, settling back in his chair like it was a throne. “As long as my dearly betrothed is paying for the drinks, I’m sure I can make an exception.”

Cheers from the gathered Chargers, and then the serving girl was there with more beer for the table and a smile just for Krem that had Fioled pursing her lips and tightening her grip on her staff. Someone had already run off to the Chargers’ main camp to let them know there was a celebration and the Chief was paying. Rocky and Dalish had made friends with some locals, who were producing a pack of cards, and the barkeeper looked like Wintersend had come early.

Bull held Dorian’s gaze as he reached over the table to grasp his hand, bringing it to his mouth and placing a single, wet kiss on the inside of his wrist.

Dorian’s eyes went hot.

“We’ve got one full day left,” Bull murmured. “Tomorrow. I intend to make the most of it.”

Dorian licked his lips, even as the closer Chargers, blatantly eavesdropping, let loose a cacophony of wolf whistles.

“Excellent,” Dorian said. “Because I intend to make the most of _you_.”

A curl of heat in his gut as the Chargers went nuts around them. Heat, and something else.

Dorian, whole and no longer jumping at loud noises, here in front of him. His boys, cheerful and rowdy and well paid, jobs behind them and jobs on the way. A ring in the pocket of his betrothed, a ring that would fit Bull and no one else.

Happiness.

Just happiness.

~

In the end, Bull negotiated with the tavern owner for a couple of kegs of ale and one of rum, and set the Chargers loose with firm instructions to not kill anyone or cause too many problems. Krem, even though he was a fucking instigator, stayed mostly sober and kept an eye on things, and Fioled promised that she had a decent supply of hangover potions to help clean up the worst of the mess in the morning. She was pressed possessively to Krem’s side and Bull smiled to see it. Fioled was one of the more terrifying mages Bull had come across, but he trusted her with Krem. At least she wasn’t a fucking bard.

Dorian was too drunk to stay in his saddle, so as the night fell away from beneath them, they slowly walked the horses through the dark, quiet village and up the long road to Dorian’s villa. It was still hot, but a fresh breeze was blowing, and all the stars in the universe seemed to be clustered above them to light their way. Bull thought of Cullen and Rylen in their desert, watching these same stars, and it warmed him to think that they’d found their own version of what he had. Contentment, and someone to share it with.

“Bull?”

“Mmm?”

“We don’t have to get married in a Chantry.”

Bull smiled. “I would, for you, if that’s what you wanted. But it might be hard to find a Chantry to get married _in_. Remember that you’re wedding a godless heathen, Kadan.”

Dorian frowned as he carefully laid down one foot after the other, terribly drunk and trying not to show it. Bull had secured a couple of hangover potions himself, before leaving the tavern. He had the feeling Dorian would thank him in the morning.

“Leliana would do it,” Dorian said, somewhat plaintively.

“Leliana is in Val Royeaux.”

“We could...all be in Val Royeaux also?”

Bull chuckled to himself. “You wanna get the band back together, Dorian? It wouldn’t be very _discreet_.”

Dorian huffed out an impatient breath. “The Inquisition would get together at the drop of a hat, for any reason at all. Max is lonely, even running around as a Jenny. And Leliana _is_ discreet.”

Bull looked at Dorian sideways, at the starlight that fell in his hair and sat atop his cheekbones. He thought about how happy he was in Val Royeaux, insulting everyone and everything for the crime of being Orlesian, even as he revelled in the finery. It wasn’t a hard decision.

“Yeah, okay. Who will stand with you?”

Dorian looked at him in mild surprise that Bull had been so easily won over, as if he didn’t know that he held Bull in the palm of his hand.

“Mae,” he said after a moment. “She’ll enjoy an Orlesian holiday. Well no, she’ll hate it, but that’s fine. And you?”

“Krem and Cullen,” Bull said promptly. “I’m twice the size of you, so I get two. That’s fair, right?”

Dorian scoffed and rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue the point. In truth, Bull knew that he needed Krem there, but he _wanted_ Cullen, too. They were making it up as they went. It was fine.

“You have to sit in the Senate,” Bull said, after a while. “And I’ve got a few jobs lined up anyway. This can’t happen for a while.”

“Next year,” Dorian said softly. “At the earliest.”

Bull nodded.

“Next year. Hey Dorian?”

Dorian tilted his head. They were almost at the villa, and the horses, knowing they were close to their stables and water and fresh hay, had picked up the pace.

“Yes, The Iron Bull?”

“I’m really glad you didn’t die.”

Dorian’s laughter rang through the night, loud and clear as a bell, and Bull smiled softly to himself as they walked up the path that would lead them home.

~

Early the next morning, Dorian woke enough to curse the Maker, his Bride, all of Nevarra, and Bull, personally, until he realised what Bull was pressing into his hand. Then he drank his potion, moaned in soft misery, and fell back asleep.

Bull left him to it.

He spent some more time wandering the estate, poking at the remains of a failed vineyard, an overgrown orchard, a small but oddly thriving pomegranate tree. He groomed the horses and let them out to graze in the front yard for a little while, before ushering them back into the stables and out of the steadily growing heat. He ate and drank coffee, and felt the time slipping away.

At mid morning, he woke Dorian.

“Hey Dorian,” he said, sitting on the side of the bed and carefully placing a cup of coffee on the little marble bedside table. “Hey, when are pomegranates in season?”

Dorian sat up and squinted at him suspiciously. “What?”

“You’ve got a tree. I fucking love pomegranates.”

Dorian had sniffed out the coffee and spent a little bit of time making love to it before he apparently felt awake enough to answer. “I don't know, winter?”

“Aww.” He leaned in and kissed Dorian’s neck. He always smelled like sweet soap, sweat, precious metal, and Bull. Bull couldn’t get enough. “Are you getting up any time soon?”

“I’m getting up,” Dorian agreed, and smiled. “I’m going to bathe. Shall we have lunch on the terrace? Is it lunchtime?

“Just about.” He kissed Dorian some more, over his smooth, broad shoulders, nuzzling into the soft, thick smelling heat of his armpit until Dorian squirmed away, laughing.

“Beast,” he said fondly. “Wine and olives. And bread.”

Reluctantly, Bull stood. “Fruit. I hate olives.”

“That’s because you’re a heathen.”

Bull couldn’t argue with that.

~

He’d set out some lunch on the terrace and was wandering through the gardens again when he heard Dorian call to him, softly.

“Coming, kadan,” he called back, and was almost back to the house when he saw what Dorian was wearing.

Or, wasn’t wearing.

He looked like a god, brown skin gleaming against the white marble of the terrace, naked as the day he was born, damp hair curling around his face, the slightest shine of gold at his ears his only adornment, for a change. He was eating grapes from the bowl of fruit Bull had set out and licking the juice from his fingers, the side of his wrist. Bull felt like he’d been hit over the head. The sun was hot and bright and seemed to caress every muscle on Dorian’s body, seemed to line every hair with fire.

He was beautiful, beautiful, and he was Bull’s.

“Damn, Dorian,” Bull whispered, and, without thinking went straight to the railing, obeying Dorian’s beckoning finger, gazing up at him.

“It’s so hot,” Dorian sighed. “I figured, why bother dressing when I’m going to ruin it all with sweat anyway?”

“Yeah, good thinking,” Bull said fervently, as Dorian leaned over the railing. “That’s why you’re the smart one, kadan.”

Dorian laughed and grasped Bull’s chin. He wore his dragon-tooth ring, and it was warm against Bull’s skin. The ring Bull had had made for him - his wedding ring - was designed to compliment it, dragonbone and gold, a row of diamonds set flush on the inside, where only Dorian and Bull would know they were there.

He’d left it with Cullen for safekeeping and just...just in case. In a year, Dorian would be wearing it. But for now, they had this.

Bull tilted his head and leaned up, a little thrilled at the novelty, straining to reach Dorian for a kiss, and Dorian smiled benevolently and bent down to meet him. It was sweet - literally, Dorian still tasted like grapes and peaches, like the fresh water that he drew from a well behind the house. Bull thought about climbing the railing to get to him or just lifting Dorian down and laying him out on the grass, surrounded by flowers and tiny, humming insects.

They’d made messy, clumsy, drunken love the night before, stumbling in the door after haphazardly seeing to the horses, Dorian climbing Bull before they’d even made it out of the entrance way. Bull had spent what felt like hours between Dorian’s legs, spreading and licking him open, and they’d fucked - joyfully, awkwardly - over the back of a dusty old couch in a side room until they’d come almost together, laughing and coughing, the room spinning around them as they collapsed in a mess of spend and dust.

They’d found each other again in the small hours, slotting together in Dorian’s enormous bed, half asleep, lazy and slow. Dorian had pressed his face into the pillow and moaned and moaned, mouth slack and eyes closed as Bull fucked him to a long, sweet orgasm, his own release finding him in the clench and shake of Dorian’s, so good it brought tears to his eyes, tears that dripped over Dorian’s shoulders and made silver trails in the moonlight.

And now there they were again, there Dorian was, naked and glorious, slotting his plump mouth over Bull’s, still smelling - even after his bath - of Bull’s sweat and Bull’s seed.

 _My betrothed,_ Bull thought, and almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it.

Dorian, gold touched. Dorian, who would die fighting if he had to, Dorian who was the most terrifying mage Bull had ever met. Dorian, who deserved to be bathed in precious oils and draped in the riches of nations, Dorian who looked most beautiful when he was laughing in the middle of a battlefield, covered in blood and lightning.

Dorian, who had lost a year of his life and who could still smile, still laugh, still promise, again, to be Bull’s and Bull’s alone.

Dorian, naked and surrounded by flowers in his beautiful, crumbling house, leaning over a marble railing to kiss the Iron Bull.

“Kadan,” Bull murmured. “Will you be mine?”

Dorian’s face was impossibly fond, lips impossibly full and wet, eyes impossibly lovely.

“Idiot,” he said. “I already am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on twitter at @queeniebgalore <3


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